Avenging Angels
by Seinaru Kibou no Tenshi
Summary: Ch 3 When Max freed the transgenics from Manticore, she had no idea what she was letting out . . . . X 8301 - better known as Rogue - is out of her cell and out for revenge! (Dark AngelX-Men X-Over)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Max and co belong to James Cameron. The X-Men belong to Marvel. We don't make a profit from either.  
  
AVENGING ANGELS  
BY LOMAS AND KAREN  
PROLOGUE  
  
Rain drummed loudly on the roof of the Forbidden City warehouse, its steady  
fall echoing loudly off concrete. Light slipped through broken windows, like  
a slinking, thieving wraith, stealing territory from the darkness in dingy  
patches. Still, the light was enough to reflect off the wet, concrete floor,  
empty except for a couple of old wooden crates and the remains of old  
cooking fires from those who could not afford to make a living in the real  
city; away from the radiation and toxic contamination.  
  
From the back of the building, footsteps could be heard, wetly, lightly. The  
intruder, however, remained well-hidden in the shadows. Suddenly, light  
flashed off cold steel and a well-balanced throwing knife slammed into a  
rotting wooden crate. Its impact stirred up a whisper of dust. It was  
quickly followed by another lethal whisper as another knife imbedded itself  
into the crate from another angle.  
  
Yet another knife slammed into the wood quickly and buried itself hilt-deep  
in the wood. Like the other two, it was aimed directly at their target and  
jutted from a different angle. A heavy, slithery scratching could be heard,  
as the rats fled from the warehouse, driven by fear. There was a dark  
presence here, a predatory thing, something . . . dangerous.  
  
Two more knives flashed in quick succession to cluster themselves with the  
first three, before a husky voice cursed from the darkness.  
  
"Damn, Ah hate when that happens. Shoulda known five was never gonna be  
enough."  
  
Footsteps echoed in the darkness, and a tall woman stepped out of the  
shadows, moving with an easy, deadly grace. She was clothed in black  
leather, which fit her body like a second skin. He long, rich, chestnut hair  
was tied back in a ponytail, the light glowing dully off the silver-white  
stripe which ran straight down the middle.  
  
She moved lightly towards the crate, crouching there, rocking back on her  
heels, hands loosely hanging between her knees. The knives jutted out from  
the crate like the needles of an angry porcupine, their fury taken out on  
the woman's target - a picture of a man, held in place by two rusty  
pushpins. The women regarded the picture with a cold anger, her face an icy  
mask.  
  
The man in the picture looked to be in his late forties, his hair close  
cropped and a non-descript blond, but there was no mistaking the cold  
calculation in his shaded eyes, conveyed even by the picture. Even  
expressionless, his face showed discipline, hardness, steely resolve.  
  
The woman saluted mockingly, her hand held limply to her bow. When she  
spoke, her voice was a snarl and her green eyes smouldered.  
  
"X 8301 reportin' fer duty, Sir!"  
  
She reached out a leather-clad hand and slowly, methodically, started  
yanking her knives free, but her eyes never left the picture.  
  
"The mission has been completed, Sir! Target X 6203 has been terminated,  
Sir!" she snarled, her voice furious. With a vicious jab, she stuck a knife  
into the right eye of the picture, dearly wishing it was the eye of the man  
who had ordered her to kill family. He had called it a test of her  
'efficiency'.  
  
"Reporting for duty, Sir! Targets X 7223 and X 7224 have been terminated,  
Sir!" she snarled again, slamming a second knife into the left eye, burying  
it up to its hilt. She tore a jagged hole in what remained of Donovan  
Lydecker's face. Those two murders had been another test of her efficiency.  
  
"The newest and best of the Manticore GE program," she mocked, her voice  
light and singsong. Killing the two X7's had been the last of her 'tests'  
before Manticore was attacked from the outside. By then, however, Lydecker  
had been AWOL for a couple of weeks. The blonde bitch who had been his  
replacement had said his employment had been terminated when she had asked  
where he was. Then, she had confined her to two weeks or solitary and some  
good, ol' ST - shock treatment.  
  
"Don't question command again," the bitch had told her, when her stretch had  
been done.  
  
And that was as far as command had been willing to go on the subject, but  
even Manticore had its grapevine and the word was that the Deck had indeed  
gone AWOL during his search for some of the rogue X5's from twelve years  
previous. Rumour also had it that he had found one - X 5452, codenamed Max.  
  
The woman frowned slightly at that. Max didn't sound like a codename to her.  
It sounded more like a name, which was more than any of them had ever had.  
She herself was simply X8301, codenamed Rogue. Her frown deepened. Max. It  
sounded so free, so . . . not Manticore. It was better than Rogue. She shook  
her head. There was no use puzzling over it now. It was all she had, and she  
didn't need more to do her job.  
  
She had heard that this Max was involved in a raid on the genetics lab. The  
lab had been destroyed, but two of the X5 intruders had been KIA and X 5452  
had been captured. Rogue had never gotten to talk to her, or to any of the  
Transgenics. She had always been kept in seclusion, her training and her  
tests separate from the rest.  
  
"In which Ah had to kill family," she thought bitterly.  
  
Had she only been allowed to talk to Max, she would have maybe been able to  
pin down where Lydecker was, since it had been her he had gone after in the  
first place. Unfortunately, two days ago, all hell had broken lose. Somehow,  
someone had hit Manticore and had hit it hard.  
  
Rogue had no idea who could have been responsible. What she did know was  
that she had been forcibly locked down. The compound had been compromised  
and command had ordered it destroyed, along with her and whatever else  
Manticore was trying to hide in it. So much for Command's 'undivided loyalty  
' She smirked at the thought. Be loyal to someone who tried to kill you?  
Like hell she would.  
  
Then, someone had pulled the plug or done something. Her paralysis collar  
and magnetic boots had been disengaged, along with all the locks on the  
security doors. She had escaped the compound, but not without snatches of  
material from the case files. Being trained as an espionage expert did have  
its uses, and Manticore's systems were no exception. It was all about  
cracking the security algorithms, and, since she had held back on all her  
tests, they had had no idea just how good she was.  
  
Rogue was irritated at the fact that she had not been able to take all the  
case information with her. All she knew was what she had been able to  
speedread before the fire took out the system. And her file had been so  
heavily encrypted that she could never have cracked it in the short time she  
had had available.  
  
But she knew enough.  
  
And she also knew Lydecker had ordered her to kill family, and the son of a  
bitch was going to pay.  
  
Rogue pulled out the last of her knives and made them disappear into hidden  
pockets in her jumpsuit, deadly magic. Rising slowly from her haunches, she  
turned to face the picture, snapping her hand to her forehead in a smart  
salute.  
  
"X 8301 reporting for duty, Sir! New mission parameters, Sir! To make you  
goddamned pay for what you did to me!"  
  
Her boot crashing down in salute, Rogue turned around and disappeared into  
the shadows, the torn picture of Donovan Lydecker the only thing to mark her  
passing.  
  
*  
  
to be continued 


	2. Chapter One: A Day At The Office

**Another part of the story that we thought only we'd like . . . . Guess there are more people out there who like X-Men *and* Dark Angel than just us. **

**None of them are ours. X-Men: Marvel. Dark Angel: James Cameron. Don't sue - we're both South African, and our money is next to worthless! ;) **

AVENGING ANGELS 

**PART ONE**

**BY KAREN AND LOMAS**

"And where have you been, missy?" 

Tapping his clipboard with a pen, Normal stepped in front of Max as she wheeled her bicycle into Jam Pony's office. As usual, her boss had a displeased look on his face, an earpiece clipped to his head, and a small parcel beneath one arm. From the writing on the box, it was destined for a restaurant in sector two. And, from his expression, _she_ was destined to get a lecture on responsibility, punctuality, accountability and all the shit that she had hoped she had left behind with Manticore.

"Well, I'm waiting?" he peered at her from behind his square-framed glasses. 

"Classic Normal," Max thought to herself, "The man needs an explanation for everything and anything. One day, I should really tell him the truth about why I'm late and watch him freak. 'I'm sorry I'm late, Normal, but I was keeping an escaped transgenic from killing people. I'll try and do better next time.' Yeah, right, I bet he'd still think I should have done that out of office hours . . . " 

With a little shrug, she said, "Sorry. I forgot to set my alarm."

"I swear you people think I'm running a holiday resort instead of business here." 

"Oh, you'd just love that," Original Cindy drawled, coming up to them and throwing an arm around Max's shoulders, "All this fine, female flesh in bikinis." 

Max grinned at her. She knew her best friend was a lot more interested in fine, female flesh than Normal ever would or could be. Unapologetically lesbian, unapologetically black, Cindy was one of the few people who could fill the room with the sheer force of her personality. She was loyal, outspoken, blunt, compassionate and sarcastic by turns. And her style of dress was almost as outrageous as she was. Today, she was wearing a tight, cropped top over tight, black pants, and her shock of frizzy hair was hidden by a bandanna.  The gold writing across her shirt proclaimed her a "goddess".

"Bikinis don't get packages delivered," Normal replied, punctuating his statement by thrusting a brown-papered parcel at Max. She made a face as she took it from him, "Now, get moving. Time's wasting, and your time is my money. Bip, bip, bip." 

"Come on, Normal, sugar. You call yourself a businessman? Original Cindy says that sometimes you can make more bada-bling from packaging than packages, if you can read the market right!" she said cryptically, a knowing look on her face. Max quickly copied it.

Normal stared at her with a blank expression, obviously lost. 

Cindy sighed deeply, "An' you go callin' yourself a man!" 

Grabbing Max by both shoulders, she turned her slightly sidewards and pulled her upwards, so that she was standing ramrod straight. With a stiletto-booted foot, Cindy kicked her feet slightly apart, and Max realised that all her curves were now in plain view of Normal. Before she could protest, Cindy came to stand next to her, dropping into a sexy pose. 

"Now imagine your packages get delivered by this, dressed up in leather. Your customers would sign for a grenade just to get a look at some of this action," she arched an eyebrow expectantly. 

Slowly, Normal's eyes lit up, as his brain turned over the possibilities, "Yeah! You sloppy-ass people might actually have an idea there. At last, a hard-working man can get more out of his business than putting up with scumbats who have no work-ethic, no drive and no working alarm-clocks." 

The last was said with a pointed look at Max, which made his eyes look like two overlarge, poached eggs behind his glasses. He approached Max and Cindy with a predatory smile on his face, the money practically flashing in front of his eyes. He could see it now: extraspecial delivery for higher rates. They were his employees, after all. They'd wear what he paid them to wear and that was that.

"You," he pointed at Cindy, "You get white leather. Max, you get black. Get me sizes. The clock is ticking, and my time is my money."

Max gritted her teeth in frustration. What had Cindy been thinking? There was no way she was going to ride around the city on her bike dressed like a cheap whore. She could take care of herself, but one of her customers would inevitably think a quick feel was a part of the deal and would complain to Normal when she knocked him out on the floor for his troubles. She didn't want to lose her job. Not only did it keep bread on her table and provide a pass between sectors, but it was one of the few normal things in her life. She could even put up with her jerk boss most of the times, when his mind wasn't somewhere in the gutter.

As it was, Cindy dragged his mind out for him, "Normal, Original Cindy says that my sister and me will dress up, but we'll need danger pay before we do. It's no biggie, sugar, but you never know what psychos walk around the streets looking for some quick action. Sometimes, they don't even bother to ask a girl first. So, me and Max think that we'll need 2K each to buy some peace of mind. That's 2K a month too. And another thing? None of your shaking your little pencil at us no more. We make our schedules. We pick our deliveries. Got that?" 

Max hid her laughter, as Normal's face pruned up faster than a plum in the sun, "What are you two pulling here? A honest man tries to run an honest business, and you try to take his clothes off his back!" 

"What a coincidence, hon," Cindy replied tartly, "Last time I checked, that's what you were tryin' to do to us. Just for that, I think we'll need to keep tips as well." 

"How will I benefit from this at all?" 

"Don't ask me, sugah. I just deliver the packages. You're the Big, Bad Businessman. You tell us."

"Bikinis?" Normal tried in a last-ditch effort. 

"Nope," Cindy shook her head, "Since you can't afford our terms, get off, will ya? Time's wasting, and me and my girl have work to do! Bip, bip, bip!" 

Scowling, Normal threw one last comment at Max before retreating, "I pay you, so get your butt in here on time. Bip!" 

Shaking his pen at them in a final admonition, he walked back into his cubicle and began looking through some paperwork. 

Max laughed and punched her friend lightly on the upper arm, "I almost believed you there for a second, Cindy. I came so close to kicking your ass."

"Just winding up the boss, sugargirl. I swear that man is positively _abnormal," Cindy rolled her eyes, steering Max towards their lockers, "Now that we've got him out of the way, what's the real dealio?" _

"One of Logan's reporter friends got word of a transgenic attacking people in Sector 4," Max explained, leaning her bike against the pillar. That done, she opened her locker and removing her leather jacket from it. She slipped it over her red vest and zipped it up tightly, before shoving her tinted glasses firmly onto the bridge of her nose, "He sent me to check it out, but it looks like it was just some punk kid's idea of a joke." 

"Funny," she commented wryly, "I hope you got a chance to show him you didn't get it." 

Before Max could reply, her beeper began to sound. Swearing impatiently, she pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at it. The words scrolling across the dimly lit screen were enough to make her regret her irritation. They read: 'NB. Call Me - Logan.' 

"It's Logan again. He needs me to call him urgently," Max explained. 

"Logan has you on a beeper?" her friend said in frank disbelief, "Sugar, much as I hate to stand in the way of true love, it might be time to dump his ass. Guy hasn't heard of a cellphone?" 

Max ignored the comment. As close as she was to Cindy, her current relationship with Logan was one of the things she did not want to discuss with her or anybody else. She didn't even want to think about it. Besides, it wasn't as if she knew what the current situation between them was. They certainly weren't lovers, but were they even friends anymore? Had she become just a convenience to him? Did he only keep her around to be his transgenic enforcer? Did he even care about her? She pushed the thoughts firmly from her mind.

Tossing the package to her friend, "Deliver my parcel, please." 

"Sure," Cindy sighed, catching it and hugging it to her chest.

"Thanks. You're a life-saver."

"What else are best friends for?" she smiled, "You take care of yourself, girl." 

Grinning back, she straddled her bike, "You know I always do."

*

The two quarters disappered into the payphone with a metallic jingle, and Max punched in Logan's number from memory. She heard the terminal dial the number with soft clicks, before it began to ring. Idly, as Max waited for Logan to pick up, she wondered just how many people would like to know the number she had just dialled, especially if they knew it lead to one of the most wanted people in America: Eyes Only. And there she was, just calling him from a payphone. 

Max's thoughts were pulled back to the present by the click of a pick-up from the other side of the line. It was Logan.

"Hello?"

"It's me," she said simply.

"Oh . . . heya . . ." 

There was a slight hesitation in Logan's voice, and Max's forehead crinkled slightly in response. It wasn't like him to sound that way. He usually seemed pleased to see or hear from her, even when it was just to save the world. Was he expecting someone else? Was it Asha? Just thinking about the pretty, blonde woman together with Logan made her stomach feel hollow.

Again, he paused before replying, "Sure, I'm fine . . . You, Max?" 

"I'm okay too. You beeped. So, what's up, fearless leader?" Max said, pretending a humour she did not feel. 

"Mmm . . . that," she knew the joke had been weak, but his voice was as cool and emotionless as it had been before. The line went quiet, and she could hear the rustling of papers being paged through, "Ah, got it. Matt Sung gave me a copy of a police report filed a couple of days ago. It was a rape case - an attempted one, to be exact. The victim said she was rescued by a werewolf or something very much like it."

"A werewolf?" Max repeated in surprise, "Sounds like the chick must have been high on weed or something." 

"Who knows?" Logan said flatly, "According to the report, her rescuer was very short, very hairy and he had glowing eyes. It was all she could see of him before he ran the attacker through with claws. He stopped the 300lb attacker dead, then vanished into thin air. The attacker is in the ICU, suffering from three well-positioned puncture wounds. Whatever the guy used, it went straight through him. Matt says they don't expect the guy to make it."

"What a way to go," Max said, matching her tone to Logan's.

"Police questioned the woman - a Natalie Chambers - but she was severely traumatised. All she could say was that the claws glinted like metal." 

"Metal? A steelhead?" she offered.

"Possibly," Logan answered vaguely, "This maybe isn't the place or time to talk about this in more detail. Come around to my place later, and I'll show you what I've got on this case."

Max felt the same little flicker of excitement in her heart that she always felt when she thought about being near Logan. As much as she knew they couldn't and shouldn't be together, she couldn't help it. 

"As in a date?" 

"I was assuming you'd like to take a look at the report yourself. I have a copy ready for you," Logan's voice was coldly business-like. It was the same tone of voice that she had heard him use when he was gathering information for Eyes Only. He hadn't even seemed to hear her hint about a date. It hadn't even been a subtle one - she would have had to show up naked at his apartment for it to be any less subtle. He would have had to be deaf not to hear it - or else he hadn't want to do so. Max felt sick at the thought.

"Max, you're there?" he asked, calling her back to attention.

"Yeah. I'll be there."

"Okay," was all he answered. Before she could say good-bye, she had heard a sharp click and the steady hum of a disconnected line. Logan had hung up.

Max slowly replaced the receiver, and rubbed her eyes. So this was what their relationship had become: brief phone-calls where they talked business like the brisk professionals they were. She guessed she could deal with that. She would have to - Logan had left her no choice in the matter. As she walked out of Jam Pony's office, trailing her bike behind her, she didn't even notice Cindy's worried eyes tracking her out the door.


	3. Shooting the Messenger

X-Men belong to Marvel. Dark Angel belongs to James Cameron. We aren't making a profit. 

Previous parts can be found at FF.net or at Karen's webpage at 

Feedback would rock. 

-------------------

AVENGING ANGELS

BY LOMAS AND KAREN

PART TWO

'SHOOTING THE MESSENGER'

Donald Lydecker noticed the glare of the trailing headlights almost immediately. A quick look in his mirrors told him the black van was still behind him. He grunted sourly. He first noticed his pursuers in the city. He had made a quick supply run, planning to see what else he could find out about those pictures with the Manticore symbol. Evidently, there were things that were being hidden from him and he wanted answers, but he had not counted on having these jokers set on him. 

He would give them this - they had managed to stay with him once he had altered course from his original heading, and started moving through the city in a non sensible pattern, going through as many heavily populated areas he could find in the hope that they would lose him.

They had not, and it was starting to irritate him. 

He took another quick look into his rear-view mirror. They were still there, keeping at a set distance, no matter where he went. He had considered making a run for it, but he was willing to bet they expected him to do that, and had a backup plan. 

That's what he would have done, were he in their position. He would have had all exits to the city locked down, or at least, had sealed off the sector. Could it be Manticore behind him? He quickly dismissed the idea. He would have noted similarities in the way they operated, and so far, there was nothing. He would have also had spotted backup already, he knew what to look for, but there was nothing he could see. Besides, he doubted Manticore would have been operational so quickly after the blowup. 

Chances were Manticore was completely shut down now. All the attention in the tabloids was not doing them any favours. No, this was someone else, and it was time to find out who, and what the hell they wanted with him. 

Lydecker opened his glove compartment, and took a cherry-flavoured lollipop out, ripping the wrapper off with his teeth before popping it into his mouth. He took his pistol off the passenger seat, and made it disappear inside his black trench coat. 

"Time for another change in course, boys," he growled before making a right. It was not long before he passed the No Entry signs, heading straight for the Terminal City Industrial Area, the black van still following him.

He floored the accelerator, the engine of his Jeep roaring to life, darting in between two abandoned, broken factory buildings. The roar of an engine behind him told Lydecker his pursuers were still behind him. Yanking the wheel to a controlled hard right, he drove in between another two abandoned buildings. 

Lydecker risked a quick glance back; his pursuers were still behind him. 

He pressed the accelerator harder, the engine whining more fiercely in protest. Broken buildings zoomed past him at breakneck speed, but Lydecker saw there was a dead end looming up ahead, the headlights of his hunters looming ever larger in his rear-view mirror. It was obvious they saw it too.

He was trapped… 

Like hell was he going to be herded in by a herd of rookies. A growl deep in his throat, Lydecker swung his car left, hoping it would lead to more room, and a way out, but all that he found was the huge grey wall looming up in front of him.

He pumped the brakes furiously, the smell of burning rubber thick in his nose, but he was never going to avoid impact. Everything exploded into the sound of shattering glass and twisting, agonised metal…

---

The black van drew up close to the wreck of scarred and twisted metal, the engine dropping into a patient idle. The headlights reflected coldly off the broken machine in front of it, the shattered glass of the splintered windshield transforming black tarmac to a ghastly montage of galaxy and stars. 

The doors to the van opened, with two men stepping out into the night. They were dressed in tight fitting combat suits; the automatic firearms they carried were cocked and readied. They shared a communicative glance and split up, surrounding the wreck of Lydecker's car, slowly closing in like predators. The soldier on the left hand side of the car moved in first, covered by his partner. Shouldering his weapon, he tore open the front door, his mouth billowing in wisps of vapour and effort. Taking his weapon in hand, he looked into the wrecked drivers' compartment, only to find a few splatters of blood on the seat, courtesy of the crash.

"He's not here. Damn it, the son of a bitch is not here!" The soldier moved away quickly, sweeping his firearms in a quick arc, hurriedly scanning the area. 

"How the fuck can that be? We checked! No damned way he could have gotten out. Should have spotted it." the second soldier snapped back, quickly checking the passenger side of the wrecked vehicle.  

"He's not here either. Shit! How'd he gotten out?" Frustration was clearly evident in the voice of the second soldier. "Damn it! Call for backup, order a search. We have to find him."

The first soldier felt the cold steel against the back of his head before he heard the icy voice 

"No need to call out the cavalry, kiddies. I'm right here."

Lydecker pointed the second pistol in his free hand at the second soldier, growling, "Toss it away, before you make best friends with *his* brains." 

He jammed the first pistol into the back of the head of his first captive more viciously, extracting a grunt of pain.

"Do it!" Lydecker snapped. 

The gunman dropped his weapon. 

"Good job, Meanie. Now your turn, Eanie," Lydecker's command was met with the clatter of metal on tarmac as the gun dropped to the ground. He grunted his satisfaction. 

"You get over here with him." Lydecker growled, mentioning to the second soldier t join them. Lydecker herded the two men away from their weapons and vehicle, backing them up against a broken down wall, the barrels of his pistols never leaving their target. 

"You, Eanie. Who's after me, and why?" 

Eanie spat at Lydecker, snarling, "The Conclave will not let you get away with this, you fuck!"

Lydecker smiled coldly, his eyes ice. 

"Wrong answer." 

The gunshot echoed loudly off the walls as Lydecker pulled the trigger, sending a bullet smashing through Eanie's right shoulder, shattering bone in a shower of gristle and blood. Eanie crashed to the ground thickly, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing darkly from the entrance wound. 

"You bastard! You son of a bitch!" Eanie piped, his voice shocked.

"One more word, and it's the left." Lydecker hissed. Eanie shut up, reduced to a trembling heap, whimpering in pain. 

"You going to do better Meanie?" Lydecker snapped. 

Meanie stood against the wall, swallowed hard, but said nothing. 

"Lets hope so." Lydecker said, aiming at Meanie's right leg, "Now, who is after me? Who is this Conclave, and what do they want with me?"

"The Conclave is simply the Conclave. That is enough for you." Meanie answered, his voice a challenging hiss.

Warning bells went off inside Lydeckers' head. Meanie had just seen his partner shot, crippled, his shoulder probably never to be the same again. He should have been ready to shit bricks on demand, yet he did nothing. He just taunted him instead. Judging by how quickly Eanie shut up, they were just human. They were playing for time. 

Perhaps they had backup after all, and he could not risk finding out. 

Calmly, Lydecker walked up to Meanie, jamming the muzzle of his one pistol right underneath the man's chin. Meanie just glared at him, or tried to. 

"Meanie, listen well. You tell your Conclave to back off. Anyone, anyone, they send after me, will be neutralised, is that clear?

"You're a dead man Lydecker." Meanie growled, spitting violently into Lydecker's face.

Lydecker didn't move to wipe the thick spit from his face, pulling himself closer to Meanie instead. 

"Really now?"

Lydecker sent a bullet tearing through Meanie's right leg, sending him down into a bloody heap followed a bellow of pain. Lydecker stepped away, grimacing at the mess. A quick look told him the bullet had torn into the artery; Meanie's bleeding was thick and fast.  

And they were neutralised, for now.

"Remember now Kiddies, you're in Terminal City. If you don't bleed to death, the radiation will kill you in a couple hours if you plan on staying here. Choice is yours. Stay, die of overexposure. Walk, and you bastards might just not bleed to death. Be good now."

Scooping up their firearms quickly, Lydecker quickly moved backwards, never letting his eyes off them. It would have been ideal to take their vehicle, but it was probably bugged, and he didn't exactly have the time to go bug hunting. Grunting, ignoring the soreness of his muscles, Lydecker made quick distance between himself and the two soldiers, turning to look at them one last time, and send a burst of automatic fire into the van's gas tank

The explosion was instant. 

Shielding himself behind broken down building debris, Lydecker gasped at the hot air. Perhaps Eanie and Meanie had made it to the van, and to their doom, perhaps not. Not that it really mattered. What mattered right now was getting away, making sure he was not being followed, again. 

Like a wraith, Lydecker disappeared into the night, leaving the blazing wreck of the van behind him, along with the two crippled soldiers.

---

Lydecker winced painfully at the sharp sting just above his left eye. He had injured himself during the crash, but considering all he had to deal with was a slight cut and a few bruises…

Lydecker smiled coldly. Chances were Eanie and Meanie were not that fortunate. If they were, his message was sure to get across. Lydecker only shrugged at himself, carefully placing a plaster over the cut on his eye. He never liked to kill, and took no pleasure in it. It was a task, and oft times, a necessity. 

That was the difference between a good soldier, and a cold-hearted killer. A soldier killed when he had to, not when he wanted to. But none of that mattered now, Lydecker thought to himself, as he put away the plaster in his knapsack.   
  
What mattered now was that he knew he was being followed. He could not risk going back to his apartment. He might have some unwanted guests waiting. This motel room he had rested for the evening would have to do. He would go to one of the few emergency points he had in the city, apart from Manticore of course. 

Once he had gathered what he needed, he would leave Seattle, perhaps disappear in New York for a little while, until all of this settled down. It was one thing finding out there was possibly more behind Manticore than he had thought, but it was another when your life was in danger. Lay low, and come back hard when you have been forgotten. Or perhaps just disappear for good… 

That was a worry for tomorrow, Lydecker thought as he closed the curtains to his window, checking yet again if the doors were locked. The motel room seemed to be secure. Even so, Lydecker patted the pistol next to him on the pillow; also making sure his bayonet was within arms' reach if he needed it. 

Fours hours of sleep, and then he'd be gone. By 6 AM, he wanted to have Seattle a couple of hours behind him. 

---

Lydecker's eyes flew open, his skin feeling as though it were on fire. There was … something here, something dangerous. Over the years, Lydecker had learnt to trust his instincts, those same instincts that had jarred him awake now. He skilfully rolled off the bed, dropping into a crouch, his pistol in his hand. 

Even as Lydecker waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the motel room, glass shattered with a heavy boom as a heavy object blasted through the window, landing on the motel room floor with a heavy crunch. Even as Lydecker had his gun trained on the first object, a second followed it, landing on the first. 

Lydecker's senses were stretched to breaking point, his pistol trained on those shapes, ready to fire the instant there was movement. Still keeping his gun on his targets, Lydecker quietly moved to the window, ignoring the sharp bite of hungry glass shards on his exposed feet, sparing a quick glance to the window, where the billowing curtains blew mockingly, revealing nothing more than glimpses of the night outside. 

Lydecker stepped outside the shattered window slowly, quickly scanning the surrounding area, like a predator on the prowl, but somehow, he knew the threat was gone. His senses were no longer screaming at his for attention. He padded softly inside, marking his passage with bloodied footprints, but this time being more cautious not to injure himself any further, approaching the still mounds lying on the floor. With his eyes more attuned to the weak light of night now, Lydecker noticed a few things about the heaps on his floor. Even though they were horribly twisted, mangled, there was no denying what they were, or was. Men. More precisely, the corpses of some of his "old friends". Lydecker rolled over one corpse with his foot gingerly, just to make sure. 

The dead, open eyes of Eanie stared back at him, the face of the corpse contorted into an expression of utter horror. 

"Whoever did this, did their work well." Lydecker thought to himself, disgustedly. He hadn't done this. It was never his intention, having planned to use the two men as a warning to the Conclave to back off. A living warning, if he could have had it that way. Obviously, someone else had gotten to them in the meantime, and took their time doing their work, and this time, the message was directed at him. Of that, the protruding knife with the bloodied note impaled in Eanie's chest, assured him. 

Lydecker yanked the knife out of Eanie's chest wetly, identifying it as a standard throwing knife, if not a very good one. Whoever had used it hadn't planned to keep it. The smell of coppery blood heavy in his nostrils, Lydecker surveyed his note, a plain, white sheet of paper with a message spelt out to him from newspaper headline cut-outs. 

"Hello Lydecker. Pleased to meet you. Hope you like your gifts."

Lydecker turned the note over in his hands, staining them red, but that brief message was all there was. He read it over again, looking more closely for clues, hidden military code, anything, but he knew he was grasping at straws. The intent of the note was clear enough. He was being followed, watched, and warned, but the corpses lying a few inches from his, bodies broken, mangled, faces contorted in fixed expressions of fear and pain, told his all he really needed to know. It was only a matter of time until it was his turn. His assailant had decided to make a game of it. A very morbid one. 

Lydecker withdrew from the corpses on the floor. He had already learnt all there was to learn. Evade, regroup, disappear. Time to do just that. Moving to his bed, Lydecker grabbed his black leather duffel bag. He padded to the bathroom, drawing warm water, getting ready to disinfect his feet, pulling what shards of glass he could out. Putting shoes on were going to be a bitch, he thought darkly to himself, placing his feet into the warm water of the bath, ignoring the clear water being stained to a rosy pink colour, along with the pain of warm water scouring over his wounds. He lavishly poured some disinfectant into the water, pulling his cell phone from his bag. 

He knew using it was a risk, but there was no helping it now. Just as dialling this number was. But he had run out of options long ago. His thumb racing over the keypad, Lydecker hit the dial key, the sound of a ring tone buzzing dully in his ears. 

There was a sharp click as the line was opened from the other side. 

"Hello?" A sleep-filled voice asked. "Who is this?"

"Logan, it's Lydecker. I need to talk to Max."


	4. Detective Work

_Disclaimer: You know the drill, soldier. X-Men is Marvel's. Dark Angel is James Cameron's. We ain't making a dime off this. _

Oh, and part 4 is coming soon. It's been written. It just needs editing. 

** AVENGING ANGELS  
BY LOMAS AND KAREN  
PART 3: "DETECTIVE WORK" **

"So?" Max asked without preamble, as she slipped through the apartment window and looked at Logan Kale. As usual, he was seated in front of his bank of computers, scrolling through a document on the screen. He was chewing on the end of a pencil, and had a troubled frown on his face. His chin and cheeks were stubbled, while his hair looked like it hadn't been brushed that morning. Max resisted the urge to smooth it for him - the one, small physical contact still allowed to them. If he wanted their relationship to be professional, and his phonecall had made that perfectly clear to her, she was happy to oblige. More than happy. She didn't need Logan Kale, not with people like that cute paramedic leaving messages on her machine every evening asking when he'd see her again or if she would meet him at Crash that night. 

His worried expression not changing a bit, Logan nodded a greeting, "Come look here. After I got Sung's report, I went online to see if anyone else had seen our wolfman." 

Shoulders stiffening at his assumption that he could order her about, Max nonetheless did as he asked and walked to stand behind him. On the screen was a scan of a newspaper - one of the tabloids by the number of exclamations marks in the headline and the lurid illustration accompanying it. It showed a werewolf howling at the moon, his clothes ragged and needle-bright fans protruding from his mouth. That was pretty typical fare, but what caught Max's attention were the three, wickedly long and sharp claws that were sketched springing from each hand. 

"The same one?" 

"Apparently. According to this article, a reliable source saw him go into the sewers in Sector Four. Normally, I'd read wackjob for reliable source, but, with Sung's report, I'm inclined to take it seriously." 

"And, the attempted rape, where did that take place?" Max asked. 

"Hold on," Logan took a slim, green folder from the pile on his desk and began flipping through it. Max could see that it was a photocopy of an official, police report. Clipped to the cover were two pictures - one was a photograph of a thin, nervous-looking woman who could only be the victim, while the other was a rough, police sketch of her rescuer. They obviously hadn't gotten much more information out of her than the tabloids had from their 'reliable source', because their drawing wasn't that much different to the one that accompanied the article. A moment or two later, Logan looked back up at her in excitement, "Sector four as well." 

Max flashed him a tight smile, "So we know our big, bad wolf is in that neck of the woods. We just have to find his den." 

Leaning backwards in his chair, he steepled his fingers in front of him, "And how do you propose we do that?" 

"Do what peasants a long time ago used to do," she shrugged, "Use a dog to track it. Or, in our case, the finest canine transgenic Manticore's money could provide." 

"Joshua." 

* 

"So, what Alec think of Joshua Number 728?" Joshua asked the transgenic expectantly, standing to one side and gesturing to one of the pictures propped up against the walls. 

Alec took a step backwards, and tilted his head to look sceptically at the painting. From what he could tell, Joshua's approach to art consisted of squirting paint all over his canvas, rubbing it in with his hands, then sticking old bits of paper to it for good measure. Art appreciation hadn't been high on the priorities of Manticore, admittedly, but he had always preferred his paintings to look like something - preferably, naked women. 

Still, there was one thing that could be said in favour of Joshua's paintings: rich people with more money than brains went mad over them to the point of throwing large sums of cash in his friend's direction. They paid big for what they called its 'playful, ironic blend of the savage and the civilised'. And, after naked women, pictures of dead presidents were Alec's favourites. 

"They'll love it," he said enthusiastically, "I think it's your best one yet." 

If he had had a tail, it would have been thumping on the floor, "Alec like?" 

"Yeah, Alec like," he replied, adding beneath his breath, "Alec like taking big bucks from stupid, rich people." 

"Who stupid, rich people?" Joshua asked innocently. 

Rubbing the back of his head, Alec gave him a sickly smile. He had forgotten that dogs had infinitely more sensitive hearing than humans, and that Joshua had inherited that trait in his genetic cocktail. Before he could wriggle his way out of the situation with a suitable lie, however, he heard the familiar sound of a motorbike purring to a halt outside the house. 

"Max here!" the canine transgenic said in excitement, "Max come see Joshua." 

And thank God for that, Alec thought fervently. He had lost count of the number of times Max had saved his rear, despite her bringing them up in every conversation they ever had together, but this was definitely one of them. He had seen Joshua get angry once, and he did not want to see it again. He especially did not want to be on the receiving end of that anger. 

When he heard Max's footsteps on the wooden porch, he walked to the door and opened it for her. As usual, her eyes narrowed on seeing him. She had not liked him from the moment she had met him at Manticore, and her feelings towards him had not been improved by giving up her chance to be cured of the virus in order to get the bomb removed from his head. He knew she thought him irresponsible, untrustworthy, shiftless, sleazy, and many other, less polite adjectives that he had thought girls were never taught. Besides, he had been made from the same genes as Ben, the brother whom she had been forced to kill. He, Alec, was a living accusation. 

"Where's Joshua?" she asked. 

"And hello to you too, Max," he said wryly, "Do come in. Joshua is inside." 

Snorting, she pushed her way past him into the house. Alex shrugged and closed the door behind them. By Max's standards, her behaviour towards him had been almost civil. At least she hadn't driven an elbow into his ribs. 

A goofy grin on his face, his tongue protruding a fraction from his mouth, Joshua bounded up to her, "Hey, little fellow. You come eat dinner with Joshua?" 

"Hey, big fellow," she smiled up at him, "Great as it is to see you, I'm afraid this isn't a social call. If you don't mind, I need to borrow your nose to track a wolf . . . ." 

TO BE CONTINUED 


End file.
